


For the Man Who has Everything

by Rose_of_Pollux



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, shout outs to Hustle and NCIS are intentional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 13:54:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8627053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_of_Pollux/pseuds/Rose_of_Pollux
Summary: Napoleon Solo is a man who has everything he could ever want.   But Illya Kuryakin still finds ways to give him what he never knew he needed. [A series of snapshots of Napoleon’s birthdays across the years.  Dedicated to Robert Vaughn]





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a piece that I did in honor of what would have been Robert Vaughn’s 84th birthday; he was a wonderful man and a hero and inspiration to many, including me.  
> Side note: I don’t count the 15 Years Later movie as canon. I do, however, go along with Robert’s headcanon that Albert Stroller from _Hustle_ is an older Napoleon.

**1960**

Napoleon had come to expect the pile of gifts on his desk as his birthday arrived; he was a popular face and a rising star among the agency, and though most of the gifts were truly altruistic gestures of goodwill, he always knew when the gifts were from opportunists trying to butter him up for one reason or another—a date, a free ride up, a foot in the door… now even more so on account of his and Illya’s latest victory over the Baron of THRUSH, Napoleon had just been promoted to Chief Enforcement Agent—the youngest CEA in the history of the agency.

He sighed, glancing from the boxes of chocolates from the secretarial pool to a glass of scotch and then to a new—and rather expensive-looking--leather wallet from some technician named Mills in Section VIII; Mills had been asking for a chance to do fieldwork for some time now, and had been requesting Waverly to work with Napoleon on the Baron of THRUSH case. Waverly had instead called for Illya to be sent from Berlin, but even Illya’s presence as Napoleon’s partner and the defeat of the Baron hadn’t dissuaded Mills from trying to convince Napoleon to give him a chance—and this birthday was just another opportunity for Mills to try and get into his good books.

Napoleon sighed and placed the wallet with the other gifts and glanced over at Illya’s desk, surprised to see it empty. He gave the empty desk a sympathetic look; perhaps Illya still thought that he was obligated to try to get Napoleon something after he had given Illya those silver cufflinks for his birthday back in September—whether or not Illya could actually afford it on his Spartan existence. He certainly hoped that wasn’t the case; he had wanted to give those cufflinks to Illya as a genuine token of appreciation. But one thing was certain--if Illya did get him something, it was definitely going to be something thoughtful; on the occasion of Napoleon’s anniversary of joining U.N.C.L.E., Illya had presented him with a travel kit that Napoleon had already made use of to a great extent.

Napoleon now set aside the gifts he had received and began to focus on his paperwork (the downside of this promotion) when Illya entered the office.

“Morning,” Napoleon greeted him, with his usual grin.

“Morning,” Illya repeated, quietly. “…I would have thought you would have taken the day off? It is your birthday, and you are still recovering from your fall.”

“It’s just paperwork,” Napoleon said, with a shrug. “But if you want to help me reduce the workload, I won’t mind at all!”

Illya just gave a wan smile. He appeared to be holding something in his hands, but the Russian seemed to be going slightly red as he saw the gifts on Napoleon’s desk, and now he seemed to have a look of regret on his face.

“Illya?”

Illya now slipped whatever was in his hands into his pocket.

“I… I wish to invite you to a dinner on the occasion of your birthday, Napoleon,” he said. “I… That is to say, we would go to an eatery, and I would pay for your meal. And drinks, of course?”

“Dinner and drinks sound _great_ ,” Napoleon said.

Illya looked relieved.

“ _Da_. I am glad you think so,” he said. He moved to sit down at his desk, but as he did so, the object from his pocket fell from it and landed on the floor; it was a rolled-up piece of paper with a small ribbon around it.

Illya made a grab for it, but the paper rolled across the floor and landed near Napoleon’s feet. Napoleon picked it up, and Illya’s face turned even redder.

“Ah… Is this for me?” Napoleon asked.

“In… In a manner of speaking…” Illya said.

Napoleon blinked, giving Illya a sympathetic look.

“If you’d rather I didn’t open it…”

“ _Nyet_ … You might as well; this concerns you, anyway,” Illya said, as his face burned scarlet.

Napoleon gently tugged at the ribbon to untie it, and then unrolled the paper and began to read it.

“Application for… Permanent transfer to New York!?” he exclaimed.

“I had given you my word in that hospital room that I would stay,” Illya said. “This makes it official—and even Beldon will have to agree. Mr. Waverly has already approved it, as you can see. With you being the CEA now, you need to approve it, as well, and that will finalize my transfer and my promotion. I would be second in command to you…”

He trailed off and managed a smile as Napoleon immediately signed off on the application.

“Illya, tell me something…” Napoleon said. “You were going to give this as a present instead of that dinner invitation, weren’t you? But you saw all those things on my desk…”

“It did make me a bit self-conscious,” Illya confessed. “I am not a wealthy man, and so I find it pointless to be buying fripperies with limited income.”

“I wouldn’t have wanted you to,” Napoleon insisted.

“I know. The dinner invitation still stands,” Illya said. “But aside from that, and this transfer application, there is little else I can offer you at the present.”

Napoleon strode over to him and pulled the Russian into a hug.

“It’s the best present I’ve ever received,” he said, sincerely.

Illya smiled back and returned the hug, knowing that he had made the right decision in staying.

**1965**

Napoleon had long since adjusted and embraced his role as CEA—even if it meant that there would be busy, trying times. Taking his birthday off was a rarity, not routine, and that was why he was spending the night before his birthday storming a THRUSH ammo dump. Illya was by his side, however, so Napoleon’s spirits were still high; five years as partners had only brought the duo closer together.

Their raid on the ammo dump had been an unqualified success; caught unaware, the THRUSH personnel had done their best to flee without taking any of the weapons with them, and after helping their backup agents take as many prisoners as they could, it was up to Napoleon and Illya to engage in Illya’s favorite part of the raid—rigging everything to be destroyed in a fiery explosion.

Napoleon had to admit that he was both amused and bemused at the interest with which Illya took on the endeavor. Still, he helped his partner set the timers on the charges as they placed them in strategic areas all around the ammo dump.

After making sure that all of their men had cleared out, Napoleon and Illya soon left, as well, deciding to monitor the ammo dump’s destruction from atop a nearby hill.

“Good night’s work if you ask me,” Napoleon declared. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a milk run, but it went better than some missions.”

“That, it did,” Illya agreed. “I only wish we could have finished up this mission hours ago; we could have been back in New York in time for your birthday.”

Napoleon shrugged.

“The mission was a success. I can’t complain,” he said.

“Admirable thoughts,” Illya said. “However, I did want your birthday to be special, even with us being out here on this mission. So I took things into my own hands.”

Napoleon blinked, looking over to him in confusion.

“What exactly did you do?”

“You will find out in a moment,” Illya said, looking at his watch. “It’s nearly midnight now…”

Napoleon was about to ask again as to what Illya had done when the ammo dump suddenly exploded—and then a stream of colorful fireworks shot out from the explosion, brightening up the night sky.

“ _Ha_!” Napoleon exclaimed. His broad grin was lit up by the colorful patterns of lights in the sky.

Pleased that his pyrotechnics had gotten the desired effect, Illya now drew out a bottle of scotch and two glasses, filling them with just a sip of scotch in each and handing one to Napoleon.

“Happy Birthday, Napoleon,” he said.

“…Aren’t we still on duty?”

“That’s why it’s only one sip.”

Napoleon’s grin widened, and after clinking their glasses together and taking the sip of scotch, he turned his attention back to the light show that Illya had provided for him.

**1972**

The 40th birthday party of an U.N.C.L.E. field agent was always a bittersweet moment—while there was much to celebrate, it also meant the end of the agent’s field career. While several agents who reached this juncture merely sought work elsewhere in the agency (Mark, for instance, had accepted a transfer to Section I), there were those particular field agents—the ones who lived for the treks across the globe and the thrill of the chase—who simply couldn’t accept a desk job.

Napoleon Solo was one such agent; he’d already had plans to start his own private investigation service to continue his globe-trekking as much as he could. And so, the large banner in the reception hall reading HAPPY 40TH BIRTHDAY, NAPOLEON was followed by a second banner beneath it reading, HAPPY RETIREMENT, NAPOLEON AND ILLYA, for Napoleon had been determined to take his partner with him in this new endeavor; Illya, who hadn’t needed any convincing, had put in his two weeks’ notice on the 8th, so that his last day would be Napoleon’s, as well.

The two of them were waiting outside the reception hall for April to let them in so that the others could greet them and wish them well.

“Is this party going to last long?” Illya mused, as he held the “office cat” Baba Yaga in his arms. The cat was one that he had brought in to the agency when she had shown up at their apartment ten years ago, and as far as he was concerned, she was leaving U.N.C.L.E. with them.

“…Oh come on, _Tovarisch_ ,” Napoleon teased. “It’s our last day here; I know you’re the introvert’s introvert, but at least let everyone have their say before we go.”

“Must I?”

“I think it’s expected.”

“Hmph. What is there to say? You are leaving after years of loyal service, and I am abandoning ship a year early.”

“No one thinks that, Illya,” Napoleon promised him. “If anything, they would have been astounded if you’d stayed the extra year. I know I would’ve been miserable just sitting around and waiting for you to retire next September.”

“If you say so,” Illya sighed. “But, perhaps, it is best that I give you your birthday present now before I become too grumpy later.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Napoleon said, teasingly, as Illya pulled an envelope from his tuxedo lining, still holding onto the cat with one arm. Napoleon opened the envelope, and his eyes widened as he saw the check inside it. “…You _really_ shouldn’t have. Illya, what--?”

“Money that I have saved over the past twelve years,” Illya said. “I want you to have it as the down payment for wherever it is you wish to set up our private investigation services—a penthouse here in New York, a chateau in Europe, a bungalow in Hawaii… Wherever you think you will be happiest.”

“…Your _savings_!?”

“You have given me so much over the last twelve years, Napoleon,” Illya explained. “I know you could have easily afforded the down payment on your own. But this is something that I wanted to do—wanted to give you. My gift. My way of saying thanks for all that you have done for me.”

Napoleon pulled him, cat and all, into a tight hug, unable to say a word. It wasn’t every day that Napoleon Solo was stunned into silence, but Illya had achieved it.

“It was an honor and a privilege to serve as your partner, Napoleon,” Illya added. “And I look forward to doing so again in your new private eye business.”

“ _Our_ new private eye business,” Napoleon insisted, his voice still a little husky.

For the past twelve years, it had always been the two of them. And now, Napoleon was determined to make sure that it always would be, too.

**1989**

The private eye venture had been a successful one; Napoleon had chosen the Hawaii bungalow to put Illya’s down payment into, and for fourteen years, the two former field agents had kept themselves self-employed, traveling around the world while calling Hawaii home.

And then, out of a clear blue sky in 1986, April had called them to say that the age limit on U.N.C.L.E. field agents had been repealed, and that the new director was desperate to have them both back and reinstated in their old positions.

After discussing it, the two partners agreed that they would accept the offer and return to U.N.C.L.E.; renting out the bungalow and taking Baba Yaga (who had broken all feline longevity records) with them, Napoleon and Illya returned to New York and to their old apartment.

They had soon fallen back into the old routine, despite having been out of it for so long, and despite being older, they were still at the top of their game. And it was business as usual—working through birthdays, though, sometimes, getting the odd birthday off, such as this one.

November of ’89 had been a cold one, and Napoleon’s 57th birthday began with him burrowing under a blanket and contemplating spending his birthday in the warm cloth cocoon he had made for himself.

The smell of breakfast finally brought him out of hiding, for Illya had finally managed to learn how to cook—basic things, at least; soufflés were still forbidden territory, but pancakes were foolproof, even for Illya, and so Napoleon emerged, still wrapped in the blanket as he sat down at the breakfast table. Illya watched in amusement as Napoleon maneuvered his arms out of the blanket to eat, not even noticing as Baba Yaga swiped a pancake from his plate and darted to the corner to eat it.

“I was wondering if I would have to wake you,” Illya said.

“I was awake--just cold,” Napoleon said through a mouthful of pancake.

“So I see,” Illya mused. “Hawaii has spoiled you.”

“You adjusted quickly enough to this weather,” Napoleon pointed out.

“Ah, well, that would be my Russian blood,” Illya said, exaggerating the Russian accent that he no longer had.

Napoleon grinned, recalling a time when that accent had been natural.

“Feeling nostalgic, _Tovarisch_?”

“Funny you should say that…” Illya said. “Because the birthday present I have for you, while nostalgic of the old days, firmly declares that those days are over.”

“…Is that a good thing?”

“I believe it is,” Illya said, placing the wrapped gift on the table.

It was a small gift—easily fitting in the palm of Napoleon’s hand. He gave his partner a questioning look, but Illya sat there with a neutral expression, refusing to reveal anything about it.

And so Napoleon opened it, blinking as he unwrapped a small piece of concrete that had purple spray paint on it. And, after a moment, his eyes widened in realization.

“Is this--?”

“A piece of the Berlin Wall,” Illya nodded. “The moment we were there, watching it go down, I knew… I knew I had to get a piece of it for you. You spent so many years preventing war from breaking out between the U.S. and Russia. And now, with the Wall torn down… It’s over, Napoleon—the Cold War is ending! You did it!”

Napoleon’s fingers tightened around the small piece of concrete.

“ _We_ did it,” he said. “There’s no way I could have done it without you.”

Illya went slightly red.

“I know it is foolish to think our job is done; this threat is gone, but there will be others…”

“So we’ll take them on together,” Napoleon said. He placed his other hand on the table.

Illya smiled and placed his hand over Napoleon’s.

“ _Da_ ,” he vowed. “We will.”

**2011**

There were, indeed, other hurdles—other challenges for the two partners as the years continued to go on. And though the two of them only continued to grow older, it seemed improper to leave U.N.C.L.E. when there was still so much to be done. And so when they were both approached to take long-term deep-cover missions, they accepted.

The work wasn’t easy, but the most difficult part of it was the time they had to spend apart; Napoleon had to be undercover in London as a con artist while Illya was undercover in D.C. as a medical examiner. They got together whenever they could, trading stories and trying to outdo each other with the tales of their antics.

Still, it didn’t mean that they didn’t miss each other when they were apart. And as Napoleon sat by himself at a pub with a glass of scotch as a birthday treat for himself, he found himself missing his partner once again.

He sighed, his mind far away when he heard a familiar voice talking to him—

“You appear to be in the need for a companion.”

Napoleon snapped back to the present at the sound of his partner’s voice; indeed, the well-known face was now beside him, blue eyes sparkling with mischief behind a pair of glasses. Age had darkened his partner’s once-blond hair, much in the way it had started a takeover of silver in his own hair.

“…You sly fox; you didn’t tell me you were coming to London!” Napoleon chided him.

“Must I recite the Oxford definition of the word ‘surprise,’ Napoleon?” Illya asked, with a click of his tongue. His expression softened. “How have you been?”

“Busy. You?”

“Just as busy,” Illya sighed. “Can you imagine the two of us being active undercover field agents at our age?”

“No more than I could’ve ever imagined the two of us working for Mr. Waverly’s granddaughter,” Napoleon said, with a grin.

Illya grinned now, too, in spite of himself; Blanche Waverly had taken over as Number 1 of Section I a few years ago and had proven to be as good a leader as her grandfather had been. She’d had a vested interest in how Napoleon and Illya were doing—no doubt having been told of their exploits as a child.

“Speaking of Mr. Waverly,” Illya said, taking out his phone. “I have another present for you.”

“…An old letter you found from Mr. Waverly?” Napoleon guessed.

“No, not quite,” Illya said. “Photographs. I just sent them to you on your phone.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, all these old photographs; I learned how to scan them and have them digitized, so now you can carry around all of our old photographs. I’d wanted to give this to you last year, since that marked fifty years since we first met, but I wasn’t able to complete it until this year, you see.”

Napoleon was now looking through the photos on his phone, each one bringing back the memories attached to them—pictures of just the two of them, the two of them with Waverly, the two of them with Mark, April, George, and Mandy, Illya in that unbelievably garish sequined outfit that Janet Jerrod had put him in when they had gone undercover during 1968’s Eurovision Song Contest…

Napoleon’s train of thought came to a screeching halt.

“Ah…” he said, realizing the implications of these photos on his phone now. “You… You found the Eurovision Polaroids!?”

“When I was getting the other photographs to scan. And I am impressed that you hid them from me this long,” Illya said, with a nod. He smirked at the look on Napoleon’s face. “Don’t worry, Napoleon; they aren’t destroyed—though trust me when I say that I was very tempted to.”

“Oh, I believe that,” Napoleon said. “You _hated_ those pictures.”

“I still do,” Illya admitted. “But, somehow, they mean so much to you. Happy Birthday, Napoleon.”

Napoleon blinked, and then smiled. In the fifty-one years they had known each other, Illya still kept Napoleon’s happiness as his top priority—just as Napoleon kept Illya’s. And that reminded him—

“Well, since you’re here, I might as well tell you the news,” Napoleon said.

“News?”

“Blanche says that my mission here in London should be finishing up in a few months.”

“Oh,” Illya said, and then he paused as it sunk in. “Finishing? As in… permanently finishing?”

“As in case closed,” Napoleon agreed, grinning broadly.

Illya’s expression softened like a schoolboy’s.

“….You’re coming _home_!” he realized.

The two of them drew each other into a tight hug.

“Think you can hang in there a little while longer?” Napoleon asked.

“ _Da_. But don’t waltz in after taking your own sweet time like you usually do!”

“When have I ever done that? …Don’t answer that,” he added, as Illya opened his mouth to speak.

The both of them exchanged glances for a moment and then just started laughing.

They had fifty-one years of memories—of adventures and hopes and dreams and a whole lot of love.

Illya had once said that they had each other.

And that, Napoleon determined, had been the secret of their success.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Don't Go Solo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9313391) by [LonelyNeko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LonelyNeko/pseuds/LonelyNeko)




End file.
